Looking back

Sometimes a glimpse from the past makes you pause and assess the present. A decade-old NDTV video, put out on the web more recently, in which senior journalist Tavleen Singh interviews me for doing a story on homosexuality was one such opportunity. The video reminds me of the kind of stories I, and my contemporaries, then managed to do. I was in my early 20s. I had neither been to a media school nor worked outside my small hometown. The way those stories would be written made them stand out. The anecdotes now linger in memories. They set the right tone.

We once discovered a village from where most families “contributed” at least one member to the business of stealing. The introduction featured a newly-married couple. The young man enthusiastically brought a cake of Pears, among other things, but his wife didn’t look impressed. She said her family used “this soap” for washing clothes. The man later discovered that her family members - who belonged to that village of thieves - had stolen cartons of Pears in the past but couldn’t sell all of those, and had to use the cakes for purposes other than bathing. Then the story, featuring interviews of policemen and locals, followed.

Sanjay Singh, who has been a mentor to me, did many such stories. He was not alone. There were many who were masters in telling such tales — away from the urban gaze.

Another story was about a village, which was not on the Railways map, but most families had members serving India’s biggest transporter. The story began with a quirky, tiny tale from the British period. A bunch of people from the village were travelling on a train, ticketless. Upon seeing TTEs, they changed their coaches and landed in one crammed with those selected to work for the Railways. A goof-up started a long tradition.

Only such tales were stories. The rest was news. We were groomed the same way. Photographs for these stories were shot by those who also shot photographs at wedding ceremonies. It’s a sheer misfortune that these stories didn’t go online then.

Not for a moment am I trying to ignore “anti-establishment” and “investigative” journalism. I’m only focusing on “tales”, which are rare now. Tales that people then told in most challenging circumstances.

We then didn’t have cell phones or computers. We wrote in the light of a lantern, and faxed them to journalism demigods in Patna. Overhead stone slabs resting on termite-infested wooden beams seemed to act like deadlines as I worked on a really old typewriter. Walls had plenty of seepages. Bed sheets and ragged saris — used as curtains — hanged limp. My reaction to the musty smell in the room — doubling up as my office — depended on the amount of time I took to type out the right introduction.

On days when your stories were not carried, you would tend to stare at flaking speckles of whitewash that often peeled off and, mixed with dust, lined the damaged floors.

There were threats. I received a mild threat for highlighting — with Tavleen — how homosexual relationships in India did not come out of Western influence; how many elite men in my town traditionally had male partners despite being married traditionally. 

I was also kidnapped and thrashed. I don’t know for which story. Around the same time I had done a story on how the backwardness in telecommunication was taking its toll on the law and order situation. Buxar was then one of the only two districts in Bihar where cell phones did not work.

A number of criminals who extorted money from behind the bars had been shifted to the Buxar jail, making the place and the prison sensitive with cavalcades of gangsters with sophisticated firearms frequently coming to meet their jailed bosses, opening a whole new vista of extortion and gang war.

In her subsequent writing, Tavleen describes my hometown, Dumraon - filthy, decrepit and felt the road every moment of the journey because “we rattled and shook rather than drove”. She wrote: “I have driven down some seriously bad roads in my time but have to say that the road from Buxur to Dumraon is in its own [of] special category. There is not the tiniest stretch that is a flat surface anymore.” In her article, she described me “a clever, ambitious young man who seemed oblivious to the decay that lay all around”.

What she meant was that when she pointed out roadside tea shops and vegetable sellers selling their wares on the edge of open drains clogged with solidified slime and plastic bags, I seemed to notice that for the first time.

With due respect to the point she made, civic problems were not the biggest stories for us. We had grown amidst those problems, but never complained because nothing was going to change. Can you make every Dumraon a Delhi? We had not seen the outside world. People sometimes don’t fathom the contrast, a reality of small towns and rural India.

My first story, for the paper I worked till six months ago, appeared in March, 2001. “Looted police rifle recovered.” A few days later, I got my first byline: “A cut in the fine will be fine for the cops.” It was about the police chief in the district asking for a share from the money realised as fine from examinees caught cheating.

For the first couple of years, I didn’t get any money. Later, things changed but the monthly pay was still in three digits. A clip on “one killed, two hurt in road mishap” fetched one Rs 10. So did a Page 1 lead. You got Rs 10 per appearance.

But passion drove us. Filing a report and waiting for the paper to arrive gave me goosebumps. In the morning, I straightaway looked for hawkers. I kept walking, covering long stretches on foot, hoping to bump into a hawker.

People always tried to avoid me in such times. If trains were late, the journey became longer. Finding out about the arrival of trains was also an important task. On several occasions, I reached the railway station only to find trains several hours late. If the report appeared, it felt great. The effort was worth it. I spread the word. I often bought two copies. One was for keeps. I kept the paper handy. I looked at the article. Several times.

http://www.dailyo.in/politics/bihar-homosexuality-gay-marriage-indian-railways-journalism-tavleen-singh/story/1/7318.html

याद लखनऊ

एक य़े भी मकान है, एक वो भी मकान था.

वो घर से भी प्यारा था कई मायनों में... (वो शहर भी तो कुछ ख़ास था)

य़े मकान तो कितना बड़ा है, वो तो बस एक कमरा भर था.

उसी में वो आतंक मचाते थे, दिन भर, नींद ख़राब होती थी

मगर मुझे जागते देख उनका सहमा हुआ चेहरा...

कई बार सोते रहने का नाटक किया... (उनकी शैतानियाँ भी तो कुछ ख़ास थी)

वो पैर घसीट के आना, वो कांपती प्लेटें,

छलकती चाय, सब्जियों से भीगते पराठे.

यहाँ कोई करता नहीं शोर-गुल. नींद फिर भी जोरो से आती नहीं

रेंट तो तब भी दिया था, बस किरायेदार अब ही बना हूँ.

More than just a walkway

Who says a leisurely walk in a bustling city is too much to ask for? Hazratganj has given you just that and much more and, in the process, gone back in time.

I never was a beat ka pakka reporter but spent time walking down that famous street.

Mostly alone.

Amid chaos.

All my kaam ki cheejein were there: the offices of NE and NR, DM's and Commissioner's offices, plus some more. I discovered (and now miss) several exotic food joints.

When I came to the city first, I was put up at the Halwasia guesthouse. I stayed there for months. The caretaker, who would wake me (and the office thought I was on the beat!) in the afternoon after bringing kulchhe from downstairs, still gives me buzz. He himself was once a small-time reporter and almost bored me to death with his stories. (This is true with all journalists. Why blame him?)

I never saw the old Hazratganj (how could I?) but it’s nice to know it’s changed for the better; that even cities such as Noida are thinking on those lines of makeover. (don’t miss reports on the sector 18 market plans here!)

When the makeover had barely begun I was in Lucknow. The commissioner’s office was one of my beats. He, along with many other officers, and the media played a crucial role in restoring Hazratganj to its pristine glory. From ensuring uniform facades of all multi-storey buildings to removal of hoardings and encroachments — beautification of the historically famous lane remained a top priority for many.

For months.

We even brought out a special edition dedicated to Hazratganj. The commissioner was never press friendly. (all commissioner office reporters also covered the DM’s office and, thus, manage information) I was suddenly told to interview him. Surprisingly, he agreed to speak and spoke at length.

We saw hoardings being removed (these were Anupam’s dear copies), power and data cables shifted underground, benches set up. Facades were resorted and painted uniformly. Traders agreed on a uniform colour code and size of signages.

I was particularly attached to the three-storey building housing the Northern Railway DRM (Lucknow) headquarters. Also being a railway correspondent, I often ventured into this one of the several architectural masterpieces in Hazratganj. Incorporating the best of British and Mughal styles, it harmonises with the architecture unique to structures of the Nawabi era.

I was surprised by the enthusiasm shown by DRM JS Sondhi. He helped immensely in putting together an article on the building for the special issue. He lamented the majestic structure, like several others in the famous lane, lost parts of the glory and grandeur to mindless commercialisation over the years.

He can rest easy now.

I found it...

I found this somewhere, don't know who wrote it:

How did one survive growing up in the 80's and 90's? We had no seatbelts, no airbags…Cycling was like a breath of fresh air… No safety helmets, knee pads or elbow pads, with plenty of cardboards between spokes to make it sound like a motorbike… When thirsty we only drank tap water, bottled water was still a mystery… We kept busy collecting bits & pieces so we could build all sort of things … and we were fearless on our bicycles even when the brakes failed going downhill… We were showing off how tough we are, by how high we could climb trees & then jumping down….It was great fun…. We could stay out to play for hours, as long as we got back before dark, in time for dinner… We walked to school, or sometimes we even rode our bicycle. We had no mobile phones, but we always managed to find each other…. How? We lost teeth, broke arms & legs, we got cuts and bruises and bloody noses…. nobody complained as we had so much fun, it wasn't anybody's fault, only ours We ate everything in sight, cakes, bread, chocolate, ice-cream, sweet sugary drinks, fruits..yet, we stayed skinny by fooling around. And if one of us was lucky to find a 1 litre coca cola bottle we all had a swig from it & guess what? Nobody picked up any germs... We did not have Play Stations, MP3, Nintendo's, I-Pods, Video games, 99 Cable TV channels, DVD's, Home Cinema, Home Computers, Laptops, Chat-rooms, Internet, etc ... BUT, we had REAL FRIENDS!!!! We called on friends to come out to play, never rang the doorbell, just went around the backdoor… We played with sticks and stones, played cowboys and Indians, doctors and nurses, hide and seek, soccer games, over and over again… When we failed our exams we were given a second chance by simply repeating the same grade…without visiting psychiatrists, psychologists or counselors… Such were the days… We had freedom, success, disappointments and responsibilities. .. Most of all, we learned to respect others…

Apnu Amdavad

I was a touch disappointed. For, the railway station was not even close to what can be termed magnificent (it must be magnificent — I thought to myself before boarding the train). Another ‘downmarket’ city? But before I could conclude, I was out in the hustle-bustle of a modern city — a series of multiplexes, star hotels, flyovers and shopping malls.

I was in Ahmedabad, or ‘Amdavad’— the largest city in Gujarat and the industrial capital. It was November 2007. I was to join DNA.

With culture varying from traditional to cosmo, residences varying from ‘pols’ to societies, buildings ranging from 3-storeys to skyscrapers, cuisine available from street food to luxury, it was the first real big city I was to work in. The driver told me much of this development happened since 2000, and the city looked back. He attributed it all to Modi. Some other colleagues from Patna were joining DNA. We were all supposed to stay in guest houses — good ones at that — for a good one month before we could find a place to live.

At the guesthouse, I met Rakesh Roshan — a man who tried to look stylish but had a simple heart (he worked with ToI Patna before coming to join DNA). He stayed in a room right next to me. He had already joined the paper.

I freshened up, had a good lunch and went to office. Shyam Parekh (the editor) had sent a text message asking me to wait for him and meet up Jumana in the meantime. I reached office — it looked magnificent too with a grand building and beautiful females around. I wore a lot of stuff, unmindful of the fact that the city was hotter that the place I came from.

With sweat on my face, I sat in a corner of the editorial section. A girl was talking on her phone nearby. I thought she must be a trainee. I was wrong. She came up to me and asked, “Are you Darpan?” I nodded. She said, “Hi! I’m Jumana.” She introduced me to the people present there. I met another girl called Tina. She was the chief reporter. In a nervous voice, I asked her, “Has RE come?” She did not get me and asked, “Who?” I said, “RE.” She smiled, “Shyam? He’s one way to office.” For the first time in my small career did I hear an editor being referred to by his name by a relatively young staff.

I checked mails, using one of the computers, read newspapers, trying to kill time, waiting for the editor to come. After sometime, I got to know that he was in his cabin. When I went inside, I was surprised. He went past me when I was waiting for him. I could not recognise him because I never thought he would be that young. I returned to the guest house as there was nothing much to do. I fell asleep.

Soon, Roshan, SS and MS joined too. It was fun. We were taken to another, and a smaller, guesthouse. I shared my room with SS. MS and Roshan stayed together, while RR got his partner in Utpal, an illustrator who came from Kolkata. We began having the best days of our life as we worked, eat, drank and laughed a lot. We left for office together, made pages, edited copies, smoked, snacked and came back late. Later, SS shifted to his brother’s place and I, RR and Mayank took a bungalow on rent. Roshan was posted in Surat. We three had a blast. We cooked at home. At times we ate out. We watched movies, read books. It was a welcome change.
I initially looked after a centerspread (poll special). RE looked happy with my work and I made page one too. The main focus was on design, layout and colour schemes. Work culture was good as there was a sense of purpose. People were very nice and informal and RE and other seniors are more like friedns, calling each other by name and cracking jokes most of the time. People said I gave page two (I looked after its production) a whole new identity with neat, ‘wow effect’ packaging. Battling all odds and constraints, experimented a lot, with big, catchy headlines, different kinds of layout using more and visual. I was also involved in coverage of international cricket in the city.

The work I did pleased everyone. I remained honest to my job. I was honest even in my stupidity — I chose to quit without any potential offer in sight over a trivial issue. My family and friends were so worried. I thank Shyam for not accepting my resignation then.
But I did not take up reporting assignments given to me from time to time. Well, I wanted to be a full-time reporter. I never loved reporting business, trends, etc. Not knowing Gujarati was another hurdle. I wanted to report things which interested me and directly affected people. Issues like crime, corruption, poverty, politics and life in villages. This was not possible in Gujarat, a state which is pretty much organised, laid back and devoid of such issues.

When RR shifted to Nagpur, I shifted to Sumit’s flat. In six months, I too left DNA. I got back to Hindustan Times as its Agra bureau. I was to cover Aligarh, Mathura and several other districts of western UP. Though my salary was to be a little less than what I was getting, that hardly mattered.

It’s been a great experience working at DNA for six months. I learnt a lot, especially from Shyam Sir, when it came to design, layout, planning and all that. I will forever be indebted to Narayan Sir too for tolerating me, getting the best out of me.

Four years ago — it rained that day

July 29, 2005. It was perhaps the most incessant rain of my life. I got down at Dhenkanal from Hirakund Express at 3.30 pm. I somehow reached a grocery shop-cum-PCO and sheltered myself under its roof. After much wait and frustration in communicating with Oriya people, I finally managed to hire a vehicle which took me to the institute. As the main building is located at quite a height and one actually had to climb up to reach there, I struggled to drag my luggage and kept going up on a narrow concrete path, completely drenched and exhausted with my newly-bought raincoat proving to be of little help.

When I was about to give up and sit down, I saw something. There I was — right in front of a wall reading “Indian Institute of Mass Communication – Dhenkanal (Orissa).” I had worked hard to be admitted to supposedly the best place providing training in journalism. I must admit the place is an absolute beauty with greenery and mountains all around. The campus is so sprawling and magnificent that once there, you feel like staying on forever. It looked like heaven.

Located on the National Highway No. 42, Dhenkanal looks superb mainly because its forests and mountains. The region is the gateway to one of the most ancient forest covers of Orissa which shelters elephants, tigers and numerous species of birds and beasts. The surrounding Sal forests came ablaze with the changing seasons making this district headquarters town focal point of trips to beautiful interiors. Still, I had no idea I was to often go out for mountaineering.

I noticed the town did not problems like erratic power supply and poor roads. Though it did not have CCDs and Baristas, it had small food joints — Food Plaza and Penguin being the most popular. The town had an ancient look to it with old building housing government offices. Some amount of development had a lot to do with students coming from different parts of the country. I was surprised to see a huge number of educational institutes in Dhenkanal.

I am not sure if it was conscious attempt but I tended to reach out to people who generally kept a low profile. Maybe I was feeling a little intimidated by the enormity of the place and the opportunity I had been presented with to have a go at what I liked the most and what I always aspired for. I was taking my time.

August 1, 2005.
The moment I entered the Conference Hall, I knew I was in trouble. While I chose to be a backbencher to escape the wrath of Associate Professor Mr Mrinal Chatterjee, he gave an angry look and announced, “You are late by six minutes. Next time, you do it again, you are out of the class and any repeat of this mistake will have you thrown out of the institute.” I summoned courage and said, “Sir, I didn’t know and was not informed of class timing.” This infuriated him even more, “The exact timing is mentioned on the hostel notice boards. Better keep your eyes open to avoid such situations.” Everything he spoke after that clearly suggested that he was involved with the institute in no uncertain terms and it was he and only he who called the shots on the campus. Right behind Chatteerjee Sir, there hung a huge board. It read: IIMC. For me, it stood for: Indian Institute of Mrinal Chatterjee!

Getting it all right
The next day, we were in our first class in the academic block. Chatterjee Sir was speaking of some of the most basic things about journalism. After a while, he asked, “Now, I’d like you all to tell me what according to you the definition of journalism is.” A whole lot of students stood up and gave their take while being boringly idealist. Most seemed to be on a mission to change the world, make it a better place to live in through their journalistic skills. They sounded more like activists, social reformers. Even as they looked to impress Sir, I again began to get nervous at the prospect of Sir asking me to come up with my take. Despite being there and almost done that, I had perhaps never thought of the definition of the profession I was so very proudly associated with.

Despite trying very hard, I could not think of anything which was different from what others said and at the same time made some sense. I almost wished to be vanished, to be somewhere else. I thought I did not belong. I was perhaps better off doing what I was doing back home instead of concentrating very hard yet failing to define my profession.

There was no escape route. It was too late now. Sir had not yet responded to the students. He looked to be searching for someone in the class. He said with a mischievous smile, “I’m told we already have a “journalist” among us. Yes, there he is. Darpan, you tell us what you understand by journalism.” I didn’t have a choice. I braced and stood up but my legs were again failing me.

Even though I had some idea about the topic, I had little faith in my ability to pull it off. I sort of said something to myself before I began in a low and terribly nervous voice, “Sir, after a lot of people have said a lot of things, it may sound pretty simple but I strongly believe that journalism is all about making people aware of what is happening around them and, in the process, if you happen to help mitigate some of the problems, you should feel good about it and move on. But primarily your job is to provide correct information. That’s all I have to say.”

To my utter surprise, Sir listened to me patiently and looked impressed too. He said, “This is what I wanted to hear. Correct answer.” He continued, “We are not here to reform the society. If we write reports keeping this in mind, chances are our bosses will not publish them. We have to sell our stories too. Doing our bit for the social society may be our long-term goal but it cannot be our day-to-day job. And we have to understand the difference between the two terms — job and goal.” He asked me to sit down.

I was hugely relieved. Though he continued with the lecture in his own charismatic way, I didn’t listen to anything. Or much of what he said did not register. It seemed I had just been spared a death sentence.

In the coming years, his lectures have continued. The place has churned out more journalists. All this while, we have covered some distance too. Lets’ salute the place and welcome the new batch!

It was Summer of 2000

It’s not pretty difficult to remember how I decided to seek a career in journalism. It’s mostly because of Munna Bhaiya (henceforth to be referred to as MB), a resident of my hometown Dumraon and currently working as a senior journalist.

It was the summer of 2000 and a lot of friends had gone to a village located close to Mughalsarai to attend the wedding of a neighbour. We didn’t get a good treatment and were kept waiting for food, refreshment and the customary welcome. MB then worked for TOI as a Buxar-based stringer. He was also there with us. I was quite fanatic about cricket and had, by then, earned the reputation of someone who read English sports magazine a lot.

I was carrying a copy of Sports Star, which came in handy to beat the boredom. MB was surprised to see someone from Dumraon reading an English magazine. Someone told him that Darpan was the only boy around who could read English properly. This interested him a bit and he asked me, “We are not being treated properly here. Now frame a sentencing in English capturing the general mood here.” All I could manage was: “Why such a bad behaviour?” He was impressed. He asked me to stay in touch and visit his house once we got back. The request made me feel good.

The first day I visited his house, he showed to me a copy of ToI. I had never seen an English newspaper before! He read out to me a small news item: “Minor raped by army personnel”. He told me a lot of things about grammar, usage, translation and different styles of writing. He looked impressed by the way I picked up small things. From that day onwards, I began taking English seriously, reading newspapers and, in the process, I came quite close to him.

We would spend a lot of time together. He would also teach me History, spend money to set my room in order and keep me motivated. I used to teach a few students and he liked it. I soon began helping him with grammar when he filed reports. He would take me along while going out for reporting. I was virtually being groomed to be a journalist in the days to come. There was a vacancy in Buxar for a reporter’s job with HT. MB first tried to get his lawyer brother into HT. When he could not perform well, I was the obvious choice. He spoke to his boss in ToI who in turn talked to the HT RE about me. This was what I was told.

Some people did not like my decision to join journalism. They said I was being used. But I did not care. In March, 2001, I had my first report published: “Looted police rifle recovered”. A few days later, I got my first byline: “A cut in the fine will be fine for the cops”. I was so very happy. Suddenly, I had become someone important. MB worked with me for sometime and a year later he got a reporter’s job with ToI and moved to Patna. After three years at Patna, he went to Lucknow.

THE HUNT, THE HAPPINESS AND THE HURT

I worked with great passion as a stringer. Though I got almost no money, I certainly got a lot of bylines. It was a unique feeling to file a good report and wait for the newspaper till the next morning. I always found it difficult to sleep at night in such times. I kept thinking about the report, while tossing in my bed. I thought of a whole lot of issues — on which page would it appear, what would be the headline, how would be the display?

On getting up in the morning, I straightaway looked for hawkers. If I got out a bit earlier, I would intend to kill time by doing absurd things. I looked for someone to accompany me in the hunt. People always tried to avoid being with me in such times. And they were not to blame. I kept walking on the roads, covering long stretches on foot, hoping to bump into a hawker. If trains were late, the journey became longer. Finding out about the arrival of trains was also an important task. On several occasions, I reached the railway station only to find trains several hours late.

If my report appeared, it felt great. It was worth the effort. I started sending messages and calling people up. While returning, I stopped at several places, showing to people my report. I remained happy the whole day and all gloom, frustration and indecisiveness were suddenly gone. I felt I could live one more day while being absolutely happy. In such situations, I often bought two newspapers so that at least one copy could be kept for record.

On getting to my room, I rested in my bed with the newspaper in my hand. I looked at the article several times. I felt too good to fall asleep, though I was usually very tired from walking a lot to get hold of a hawker as soon as possible. Whenever I got out of half-sleep postures, I again looked at the article attaching a lot of importance to it as if it was a masterpiece or something; as if it would change the way reporting has so far been looked at, the course of journalism and my own career in particular. Sometimes, I took the newspaper to a few people in the evening asking them to look at the report. The day ended finally and I went to sleep feeling satisfied and confident, deciding to work harder.

This was the positive side of it. But what happened when things did not go my way? When I searched the whole newspaper and did not find my report anywhere? It was a terrible, terrible feeling. I felt embarrassed on coming across someone willing to know the fate of the report I had filed. I looked for excuses. I sought to justify the decisions of my bosses. If it was a feature kind of a thing, the agony only advanced as I started waiting for the next day.

I know people — whom I wanted to be with me while going out to get my copy of HT — always cursed me for subjecting them to the ordeal.

I knew, I had the copy

Getting hold of Azhar is, at times, still as tricky as it was when he captained Team India. The only difference in his second innings is once ‘caught’, he talks. Years of cricketing upheavals could not change Md Azharuddin — he remained the same man of a few words throughout his career. But politics has done what sporting glory — or the lack of it — could not.

I was preparing to key in a rather routine piece in office on Saturday evening when a senior came up and said, “He is in town — at the VVIP guesthouse, to be precise. Try and talk to him. You may have a lighter stuff for Sunday reading.” But there was this catch — he was about to rush to the airport. Someone should have known he was here the whole day to take part in a UPCC event, I thought to myself. The senior tried to line things up, but in vein. “Just give it a try,” he said.

I rushed. I reached the guesthouse and located the room he was putting in. I sent in a request. People surrounding him — actually getting themselves photographed with him — said all media talks were over and Bhai was about to leave. I barged in. I had to. He was talking on the phone.

I requested, “Just a few questions.”
“Not possible, I’m leaving,” he replied.
“Just two questions.”
“But I have to go.”
“Can we talk while going downstairs?”
“It doesn’t happen like that.”
“Just one question.”
He gave in.
I knew, I had the copy.

“You cannot go about burning down people’s houses like that. It’s undemocratic,” was the first thing he said. The former India cricket captain’s outburst was in context of the arson and vandalism resorted to at UPCC president Rita Joshi’s house in Lucknow on July 15. “It all happened in a high-security zone. Even now the police are biased.”

I recently got an idea that he had begun to talk when he took everyone by surprise when he delivered his first speech in Parliament as Moradabad MP. “Yeah, I spoke out against monopoly in sports federations,” he told me while going downstairs. Even though I struggled to stay close to him in the face of betel-chewing party workers jostling to get clicked alongside him, the once-reticent ‘wonder boy’ was not short of issues.

Though many may disagree, I understand the change in demeanour can, in a way, be attributed to the fact that Azhar seeks to change his image, as it was not too long ago that he was banned for life from playing cricket for his alleged role in a match fixing scandal. He last played for India in 2000 before the issue ruined his career.

When I last met and spoke to him, exactly three months ago, the stylish Hyderabadi had said he would play a long inning. And he is already showing signs of doing just that. Even as the Congress sought to play down the remarks of Joshi — which was followed by violence at her house — he courted arrest to express solidarity. It was only on Saturday that the party said the UP government was responsible for the attack.

He admits life has changed and it has changed in a big way. “It’s now different. From cricket to campaigning and now political responsibilities.” “I have identified issues in my constituency all this while and I’m now trying to find out ways to address them.” His priority: health, education and sports — in that order!

When he was about to get into an SUV, I knew the interview had to be stopped. I had spent years marveling his batting, fielding and captaincy — I have been a big cricket fanatic (people who love me will vouch for it for lesser amount of time I give them due to this ‘futile sport’). So, I thought, a handshake would not be a bad idea.

“I’m a big fan of yours.”
He reluctantly responded. He only smiled. He seemed relieved.

I last met him, when he was campaigning. I told him he did not look like a politician (wearing blue jeans, designer goggles and his all-time favourite Nike shoes). Azhar smiled, “Politics is still new to me. Cricket was my profession.” But he quickly added, “But this will not be cameo. I will play a long innings.” During a roadshow, Azhar threw flowers and garlands at girls and women and when they returned the gesture, the best fielder of his times, caught the offerings with the same old precision.

Fitness still is of paramount importance for him. He wakes up at 6.30 without fail (blame it on clock alarm!), offers namaz then does light workout. At 8 am, he reads newspapers and has tea with old film songs playing in the background.

A close aide confides, “He hates wearing kurta-pyajama but even when he has to do that, he never forgets his goggles and shoes, adding, “Due to bumpy political rides, he sometimes needs light massage to help get good sleep at night.” He prefers brown bread and omelet in breakfast but no oily food and he always carries energy drinks, fruits and packaged water.

When I returned to office (the interview was over in a few minutes), the senior asked, “Could meet him?” “Yes,” I said and proceeded to key in. but it was a different ballgame altogether!